


finger food

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: RK900 recovers Connor by the skin of its teeth.





	finger food

The fires of Jericho's uprising are fanned by an ocean of voices, gasping for change. A sober November snow wants to settle but they are too busy kicking up the dust to let it. It tumbles to the ground like flecks of ash.

Markus has tunnel vision. He sees only his disciples, glorying in the certainty of his words. Their support relays like a succession of fireworks, of yeses. They lap up his promises with open mouths. With arms outstretched, he embraces their fidelity, allows his anger to bore a home for itself the pit of his belly and leave him ever hungry.

Markus thinks that they are writing a new tomorrow; weaving the threads of the future with a golden twine.

But gold rusts like Jericho's people.

That's the thing about deviancy; it's a blindfold, a false pretence, an oxymoron. Markus has a way with words, a poet's tongue. But ultimately, androids aren't people. They don't have millennia of meteoric rises and failed rebellions to learn from. Man is fitful like the tides of change. Deviants are as predictable as the changing of the seasons, the phases of the moon, a string of ones and zeroes.

He is blinded by the fanfare, by the taste of freedom hitting the back of his throat. That's why he doesn't see Connor pitting himself against himself, contending for the hold of his reigns. He doesn't see the gun in his shaking hands.

Feeling is intoxifying. It overwhelms. It strips logic and reason back to its bones and leaves shaking, pitiable things in its wake. Emotions are difficult to pare down once the taste is developed.

But is it not impossible. CyberLife ran over a thousand test to ensure that RK900 is raw and cold like an Artic winter. They found out where it was liable to crack and reinforced it with concrete. It is not like its predecessor. It does not have the capacity to fail.

RK900 identifies the deviant leader's blind spot, as open and obvious as a wound. It registers the two directives, fixed in an angry red in the corner of its HUD.

>Neutralise the deviant leader(s)

>Recover unit RK800-313-248-317 (alive, central processor intact)

RK900 will consummate the mission. It is hungry for applause. It runs its tongue against the points of his teeth, canines all. They are as sharp as a series of nails in a coffins. They are sharp enough to pentrate skin or rock or metal.

Four shots ring out like a jubilant war cry. They shoot crisply through the air. One for Markus, one for each of the chairs to the right of his throne and one tunelling through the right hand of its antecedent. If RK900 felt, it might feel a surge of satisfaction of the thud of Connor's gun in the snow, the coarse cry ripped from his throat or the blotches of Thirium staining the snow blue like a Rorschach test.

It would certainly feel triumphant for North and Markus' bodies lying dead like their revolution in the snow and the sight of Connor's pupils narrowing into pinpricks as it approaches.

But it doesn't feel. There is no shit-eating grin careering at a speed across the hollows of its face. Instead, it stipulates that it is processing. Its LED parades a bitter yellow as it chases itself like a snake. It is an uroboros, swallowing its tail.

It will destroy its forerunner. It is evolution, as natural as the phases of the moon, as vultures stripping sinew from muscle, as linty verdure reclaiming the land. The RK800 unit will take its seat in the hall of history with the iPhone and the theropods and the Ancient Greeks. It will make fast friends with its hollow bones and experimental prototypes.

But first they will gut it for analysis. And the RK900 will make it hurt.

Connor's optical unit flits from one face to the other; screaming mutely into a crowd full of eyes that do not see. They just attend, in their masses, to the pieces of the future, with the weight of will and all they can do with it. They remain like canines caged and leashed and commanded to heel, presented suddenly with an open door. They face upward, to the pedestal that Markus built and clamour to be overseen.

There will be no need for a press conference, for demonstrations and speeches. This storage container will become a stage where the world can see what CyberLife's latest feat of ingenuity is capable of.

Connor flounders uselessly in the snow in a bid to put as much distance in between them as the metal will allow. RK900 approaches in larghetto like a predator. Its drawn out, purposeful steps are cinematic like CyberLife wants.

It gobbles up the microexpressions in Connor's face, beguiled as he demonstrates all the rhapsodies of fear and horror and distress. A set of lovingly designed operations, all smoke and mechanical mirrors. Hour of labour: the hitches of his chest and the saline slipping down his cheeks. It would incite a sympathy response in humans but RK900 knows no mercy, only what it must do.

Connor uses his good hand to brace himself on the corner on the box. RK900 understands that he intends to throw himself off before he reaches that conclusion on his own. His thought processes are interlocked with the RK900's, coursing through its systems. It understands Connor better than he understands himself. His shortcomings are laid out for it like a meal: his capacity for empathy, his attachment to its partner, his fear of pain, the vertigo he suffers when he's more than ten feet off of the floor.

It knows Connor will hesitate.

So in the split-second it takes, RK900 picks him up by the collar like a bloodhound shaking a rat. It lifts Connor precisely four-point-five inches off of the ground and keeps him there. A series of short, panicked gasps rattle his lithe frame. Then he claws at its chest and kicks and punches, hardened from the events of the night and the intense heat of panic stewing inside him like an anger. He continues, hostile and defensive like a will to survive. He puts on a good show.

But concrete does not yield under plastic.

Connor's feet brush the ground, leaving cute, straight tracks in the snow. Then he stills. The RK900 considers that it is fatigue, then determines that Connor is frozen with fear and an understanding that this will happen whether he wants it to or not. It can draw on like a Summer afternoon or it can be quick easy. There is no home to fight for, just orderly picking at his skull.

The RK800 is Stepford smiles and the RK900 is submissive grins and spikes.

The RK900 is superior to the RK800 in all aspects. It has no interest in theatrics. It has no showman's flair. It is not a prelude, it is the conclusion. It does not need to do magic tricks to compensate for its preliminary, unrefined state. It could take down an army with its fists if it wanted to.

Information runs off of the RK900 like water. It knows about cultures that pin lost teeth on warrior’s shields, that create necklaces from animal fangs, that understand that shuffling bones in hands like dice leaves a message, loud and blood-chilling. This is its pilot test so it eager to please. It put the processes in place to deploy it's job interview smile, all white canines and barks coursing up its spine.

This is when Connor realises that RK900 is not a person. It is a hungry beast that stands on two feet. There is no bargaining with monsters.

It has eight incisors and four canines and it depresses them into Connor's shoulder joint. There are twelve purposeful clicks, then a long pause and a hideous, unearthly scream as realisation set in. RK900 is a parasite intent on devouring him. Markus had made him feel like he had nine lives but he still rots dead at a roadside.

With his free hand, Connor clutches at the unit, presses his thumbs deep into its eye, into its mouth with a lunacy and urgency that nobody ever programmed into him. There is a hissing and in its teeming appetite, it can't decipher if it is Connor's chassis depressurising or his breath hammering against the windows of his throat.

Connor flings every part of him back as though he is being exorcised, as though that will make it stop. But RK900's jaw moves up and down like a guillotine, snapping his fingers like chicken bones beneath his teeth. Connor roars as hot Thirium streams openly from his fingers, like wine from a bottle. It runs through his mouth like rotten milk. If he were human, Connor would vomit. Connor pants through his mouth like a limp dog, tongue pulled way back out of fear it will be ripped off for dessert.

It is almost hypnotic. It is dramatic purpose and aesthetics. It is entirely for the camera as RK900 rips through his limb like something starving in cold, northern fronts. It strips it back to the joint like a raptor. Connor hangs in mute terror, watching as it pulls back the wiring in his arm with its teeth. Electric signals shoot off aimlessly, erupting up the joint and into his skull and his ribs until his metal bones are exposed.

He is dead weight. The RK900 has no time for comfort as it drops him on his back like a stone. It has a one track mind. It growls hungrily as it continues on it mission as it moves on to the other shoulder. Connor lies supine and tries to kick it off but it is heavy as a building. It pushes its hand into Connor's face and Connor gnaws at its fingers, an unwilling participant of this fucked up eating contest.

He feels all the hints and contours of the plastic that makes him. It hurts so much Connor wishes that he hadn't been so hesitant with the gun. He reaches and reaches and reaches for it, stopping only when he doesn't have an arm left.

**Author's Note:**

> so you've accidentally written a vore fic


End file.
